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Файл:The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson
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THE TRAGEDY OF PUDD’NHEAD WILSON
were born in his house: one to him, the other to one of his
slave girls, Roxana by name. Roxana was twenty years old.
She was up and around the same day, with her hands full, for
she was tending both babies.
Mrs. Percy Driscoll died within the week. Roxy remained
in charge of the children. She had her own way, for Mr. Driscoll
soon absorbed himself in his speculations and left her to her
own devices.
In that same month of February, Dawson’s Landing gained
a new citizen. This was Mr. David Wilson, a young fellow of
Scotch parentage. He had wandered to this remote region from
his birthplace in the interior of the State of New York, to seek
his fortune. He was twenty-fi ve years old, college-bred, and
had fi nished a post-college course in an Eastern law school
a couple of years before.
He was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired young fellow, with
an intelligent blue eye that had frankness and comradeship
in it and a covert twinkle of a pleasant sort. But for an unfortunate remark of his, he would no doubt have entered at once
upon a successful career at Dawson’s Landing. But he made his
fatal remark the fi rst day he spent in the village, and it “gaged”
him. He had just made the acquaintance of a group of citizens
when an invisible dog began to yelp and snarl and howl and
make himself very comprehensively disagreeable, whereupon
young Wilson said, much as one who is thinking aloud –
“I wish I owned half of that dog.”
“Why?” somebody asked.
“Because I would kill my half.”
11
MARK TWAIN
The group searched his face with curiosity, with anxiety
even, but found no light there, no expression that they could
read. They fell away from him as from something uncanny,
and went into privacy to discuss him. One said:
“’Pears to be a fool.”
“’Pears?” said another. “Is, I reckon you better say.”
“Said he wished he owned half of the dog, the idiot,” said
a third. “What did he reckon would become of the other half
if he killed his half? Do you reckon he thought it would live?”
“Why, he must have thought it, unless he is the downrightest fool in the world; because if he hadn’t thought it, he would
have wanted to own the whole dog, knowing that if he killed
his half and the other half died, he would be responsible for
that half just the same as if he had killed that half instead of
his own. Don’t it look that way to you, gents?”
“Yes, it does. If he owned one half of the general dog, it
would be so; if he owned one end of the dog and another
person owned the other end, it would be so, just the same;
particularly in the fi rst case, because if you kill one half of
a general dog, there ain’t any man that can tell whose half it
was, but if he owned one end of the dog, maybe he could kill
his end of it and –”
“No, he couldn’t either; he couldn’t and not be responsible
if the other end died, which it would. In my opinion the man
ain’t in his right mind.”
“In my opinion he hain’t got any mind.”
No. 3 said: “Well, he’s a lummox, anyway.”
“That’s what he is,” said No. 4, “he’s a labrick – just a Simon-pure labrick, if ever there was one.”
12
THE TRAGEDY OF PUDD’NHEAD WILSON
“Yes, sir, he’s a dam fool, that’s the way I put him up,” said
No. 5. “Anybody can think different that wants to, but those
are my sentiments.”
“I’m with you, gentlemen,” said No. 6. “Perfect jackass – yes,
and it ain’t going too far to say he is a pudd’nhead. If he ain’t
a pudd’nhead, I ain’t no judge, that’s all.”
Mr. Wilson stood elected. The incident was told all over
the town, and gravely discussed by everybody. Within a week
he had lost his fi rst name; Pudd’nhead took its place. In time he
came to be liked, and well liked too; but by that time the nickname had got well stuck on, and it stayed. That fi rst day’s verdict made him a fool, and he was not able to get it set aside, or
even modifi ed. The nickname soon ceased to carry any harsh
or unfriendly feeling with it, but it held its place, and was to
continue to hold its place for twenty long years.
CHAPTER II
DRISCOLL SPARES HIS SLAVES
Adam was but human – this explains it all. He did not want
the apple for the apple’s sake, he wanted it only because it
was forbidden. The mistake was in not forbidding the ser-
pent; then he would have eaten the serpent.
Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.
Pudd’nhead Wilson had a trifl e of money when he arrived,
and he bought a small house on the extreme western verge of
the town. Between it and Judge Driscoll’s house there was
only a grassy yard, with a paling fence dividing the properties
in the middle. He hired a small offi ce down in the town and
hung out a tin sign with these words on it:
DAVID WILSON.
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR-AT-LAW.
SURVEYING, CONVEYANCING, ETC.
But his deadly remark had ruined his chance – at least in
the law. No clients came. He took down his sign, after a while,
14
THE TRAGEDY OF PUDD’NHEAD WILSON
and put it up on his own house with the law features knocked
out of it. It offered his services now in the humble capacities of
land-surveyor and expert accountant. Now and then he got
a job of surveying to do, and now and then a merchant got
him to straighten out his books. With Scotch patience and
pluck he resolved to live down his reputation and work his
way into the legal fi eld yet. Poor fellow, he could not foresee
that it was going to take him such a weary long time to do it.
He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung
heavy on his hands, for he interested himself in every new
thing that was born into the universe of ideas, and studied it
and experimented upon it at his house. One of his pet fads was
palmistry. To another one he gave no name, neither would he
explain to anybody what its purpose was, but merely said it was
an amusement. In fact he had found that his fads added to his
reputation as a pudd’nhead; therefore he was growing chary of
being too communicative about them. The fad without a name
was one which dealt with people’s fi nger-marks. He carried
in his coat pocket a shallow box with grooves in it, and in
the grooves strips of glass fi ve inches long and three inches
wide. Along the lower edge of each strip was pasted a slip of
white paper. He asked people to pass their hands through their
hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the natural
oil) and then make a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following
it with the mark of the ball of each fi nger in succession. Under this row of faint grease-prints he would write a record on
the strip of white paper – thus:
J S, right hand –
15
MARK TWAIN
and add the day of the month and the year, then take
Smith’s left hand on another glass strip, and add name and
date and the words “left hand.” The strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their place among what
Wilson called his “records.”
He often studied his records, examining and poring over
them with absorbing interest until far into the night; but what
he found there – if he found anything – he revealed to no
one. Sometimes he copied on paper the involved and delicate
pattern left by the ball of a fi nger, and then vastly enlarged it
with a pantograph so that he could examine its web of curving
lines with ease and convenience.
One sweltering afternoon – it was the fi rst day of July,
1830 – he was at work over a set of tangled account-books
in his work-room, which looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation outside disturbed him. It was
carried on in yells, which showed that the people engaged in it
were not close together:
“Say, Roxy, how does yo’ baby come on?” This from the distant voice.
“Fust-rate; how does you come on, Jasper?” This yell was
from close by.
“Oh, I’s middlin’; hain’t got noth’n’ to complain of. I’s
gwine to come a-court’n’ you bimeby, Roxy.”
“You is, you black mud-cat! Yah – yah – yah! I got somep’n’
better to do den ’sociat’n’ wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole
Miss Cooper’s Nancy done give you de mitten?” Roxy followed
this sally with another discharge of care-free laughter.
16
THE TRAGEDY OF PUDD’NHEAD WILSON
“You’s jealous, Roxy, dat’s what’s de matter wid you, you
hussy – yah – yah – yah! Dat’s de time I got you!”
“Oh, yes, you got me, hain’t you. ’Clah to goodness if dat
conceit o’ yo’n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho’.
If you b’longed to me I’d sell you down de river ’fo’ you git
too fur gone. Fust time I runs acrost yo’ marster, I’s gwine to
tell him so.”
This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties
enjoying the friendly duel and each well satisfi ed with his own
share of the wit exchanged – for wit they considered it.
Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants;
he could not work while their chatter continued. Over in
the vacant lots was Jasper, young, coal-black and of magnifi cent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow in the pelting sun – at
work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only preparing for
it by taking an hour’s rest before beginning. In front of Wilson’s porch stood Roxy, with a local hand-made baby-wagon,
in which sat her two charges – one at each end and facing
each other. From Roxy’s manner of speech, a stranger would
have expected her to be black, but she was not. Only one
sixteenth of her was black, and that sixteenth did not show.
She was of majestic form and stature, her attitudes were imposing and statuesque, and her gestures and movements distinguished by a noble and stately grace. Her complexion was very
fair, with the rosy glow of vigorous health in the cheeks, her
face was full of character and expression, her eyes were brown
and liquid, and she had a heavy suit of fi ne soft hair which was
also brown, but the fact was not apparent because her head
was bound about with a checkered handkerchief and the hair
17
MARK TWAIN
was concealed under it. Her face was shapely, intelligent and
comely – even beautiful. She had an easy, independent carriage – when she was among her own caste – and a high and
“sassy” way, withal; but of course she was meek and humble
enough where white people were.
To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one sixteenth of her which was black outvoted
the other fi fteen parts and made her a negro. She was a slave,
and salable as such. Her child was thirty-one parts white, and
he, too, was a slave, and by a fi ction of law and custom a negro.
He had blue eyes and fl axen curls like his white comrade, but
even the father of the white child was able to tell the children apart – little as he had commerce with them – by their
clothes: for the white babe wore ruffl ed soft muslin and a coral
necklace, while the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen shirt
which barely reached to its knees, and no jewelry.
The white child’s name was Thomas à Becket Driscoll,
the other’s name was Valet de Chambre: no surname – slaves
hadn’t the privilege. Roxana had heard that phrase somewhere, the fi ne sound of it had pleased her ear, and as she had
supposed it was a name, she loaded it on to her darling. It soon
got shorted to “Chambers,” of course.
Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wit
began to play out, he stepped outside to gather in a record
or two. Jasper went to work energetically, at once, perceiving that his leisure was observed. Wilson inspected the children and asked –
“How old are they, Roxy?”
18
THE TRAGEDY OF PUDD’NHEAD WILSON
“Bofe de same age, sir – fi ve months. Bawn de fust
o’ Feb’uary.”
“They’re handsome little chaps. One’s just as handsome as
the other, too.”
A delighted smile exposed the girl’s white teeth,
and she said:
“Bless yo’ soul, Misto Wilson, it’s pow’ful nice o’ you to say
dat, ’ca’se one of ’em ain’t on’y a nigger. Mighty prime little nigger, I al’ays says, but dat’s ’ca’se it’s mine, o’ course.”
“How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they haven’t
any clothes on?”
Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said:
“Oh, I kin tell ’em ’part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy couldn’t, not to save his life.”
Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy’s
fi nger-prints for his collection – right hand and left – on
a couple of his glass strips; then labeled and dated them, and
took the “records” of both children, and labeled and dated
them also.
Two months later, on the 3d of September, he took this
trio of fi nger-marks again. He liked to have a “series,” two or
three “takings” at intervals during the period of childhood,
these to be followed by others at intervals of several years.
The next day – that is to say, on the 4th of September – something occurred which profoundly impressed Roxana. Mr. Driscoll missed another small sum of money – which
is a way of saying that this was not a new thing, but had happened before. In truth it had happened three times before.
Driscoll’s patience was exhausted. He was a fairly humane
19
MARK TWAIN
man toward slaves and other animals; he was an exceedingly
humane man toward the erring of his own race. Theft he could
not abide, and plainly there was a thief in his house. Necessarily the thief must be one of his negroes. Sharp measures
must be taken. He called his servants before him. There were
three of these, besides Roxy: a man, a woman, and a boy twelve
years old. They were not related. Mr. Driscoll said:
“You have all been warned before. It has done no good. This
time I will teach you a lesson. I will sell the thief. Which of you
is the guilty one?”
They all shuddered at the threat, for here they had a good
home, and a new one was likely to be a change for the worse.
The denial was general. None had stolen anything – not money, anyway – a little sugar, or cake, or honey, or something
like that, that “Marse Percy wouldn’t mind or miss,” but not
money – never a cent of money. They were eloquent in their
protestations, but Mr. Driscoll was not moved by them. He answered each in turn with a stern “Name the thief!”
The truth was, all were guilty but Roxana; she suspected
that the others were guilty, but she did not know them to be
so. She was horrifi ed to think how near she had come to being
guilty herself; she had been saved in the nick of time by a revival in the colored Methodist Church, a fortnight before, at
which time and place she “got religion.” The very next day
after that gracious experience, while her change of style was
fresh upon her and she was vain of her purifi ed condition, her
master left a couple dollars lying unprotected on his desk, and
she happened upon that temptation when she was polishing
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